<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Oh So Peaceful by Paraprosdokia (ChangeableConsistency)</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23826370">Oh So Peaceful</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChangeableConsistency/pseuds/Paraprosdokia'>Paraprosdokia (ChangeableConsistency)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Unconnected Phil Coulson Fics [13]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Fingering, BAMF Phil Coulson, Begging, Clint Barton’s Abusive Childhood, Cock &amp; Ball Torture, Deaf Clint Barton, Hand Jobs, Identity Porn, Light BDSM, M/M, May/December Relationship, Orgasm Control, Past Phil/Fury, Power Bottom, Sharing Body Heat, Survivalist Phil, Teasing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 16:48:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,723</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23826370</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChangeableConsistency/pseuds/Paraprosdokia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint gets caught in a blizzard; Phil helps him thaw out.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clint Barton/Phil Coulson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Unconnected Phil Coulson Fics [13]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1709944</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>128</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Title from Bjork’s Oh So Quiet.</p><p>For the purposes of this fic Clint is 26 and Phil is in his early to mid 40s.</p><p>Their backgrounds are kind of a mishmash of all their different canons.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The worst of the storm is a good twenty out and it’s not expected to be too bad, so Clint has plenty of time to get down from the snow ladened tree and to his evening’s camp before it gets buried. It’s already halfway there, he had tightly packed last night’s accumulation around his tent as extra insulation; that and his cold weather gear will be plenty good enough to keep him functioning, if not comfortable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to wait out the last of the pale autumn light if he can. The principal, Tom Pullman, has stayed inside all day, not even coming out to the woodshed/garage; which isn’t strange, he had gathered all of his snares last night, bringing in a solid week’s worth of rabbit and at least three days of wood. Clint doesn’t expect to see him again until the skies clear, which should only be a day or so. Pullman really should bring in another arm load of wood, but it’s not Clint’s job to keep him warm, just alive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s been a week without any signs of hostiles and honestly? He doesn’t get it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pullman is a low stakes pencil pusher; a Level 3 agent without access to any intel rated over Internal Use and he acts like he’s on vacation up here in the Canadian wilderness and not stashed away for whatever Machiavellian reasons SHIELD brass has this week. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clint’s been Level 6 for a little over a month now; even before reaching SHIELD’s highest security rating, he’d seen just about everything, and he’s definitely overqualified as a babysitter. He’s been told to be on the lookout for everything from another sniper to a small invasion, all without letting Pullman know he’s being surveilled and it has him wondering what Pullman may have stumbled across to make him a target. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clint lands softly, more stepping down out of the tree than climbing, keeping his touch light to avoid disturbing the snow from the pine branches and ground cover as much as possible; any signs he might leave behind will be obliterated by the coming storm, but he’s a professional, damn it, which means he’s going to do it right no matter how ridiculous the assignment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stays low as he reaches the edge of the tree line, it’s only about thirty feet from the cabin with its jaunty puff of woodsmoke spiraling from the chimney and small golden lit windows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t get a good angle to see in, which is good in that it means any hostiles will have just as much trouble seeing inside as Clint does, but it also means Pullman will be completely blindsided by any sort of attack. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that he appears to be aware of any danger. He takes a rifle and hunting knife with him whenever he checks his snares and seems to be a competent enough woodsman, relaxed but alert on the trails, that Clint hasn’t had to worry about him getting lost or starving. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wind starts to pick up and with it comes the first few flakes and he’s turning away from the cabin when the front and only door opens, spilling out light and warmth. It looks like Pullman’s coming out for one last armload of firewood and, yeah, for a desk jockey he seems to have the outdoorsman’s gig down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pullman hesitates at the door, as if he’s forgotten something and then turns and his voice barely carries over the growing wind, “It’s going to be a big one; I’m making plenty of stew.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s almost as if he’s calling out to Clint, which is impossible. There’s no way he could know Clint is here. It’s about a billion times more likely that he’s just talking to himself. It’s the first time Clint’s heard his voice and Clint’s sure he’s just imagining the invitation he hears there. At any rate, it doesn’t look like Pullman’s concerned about the storm and seems unaware that he’s in any danger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes Clint wishes he could be that carefree. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clint just makes it back to his tent before the full force of the storm hits and he thinks he may have cut it too close, but he manages to get settled in with a handful of protein bars before making sure he’s wrapped up tight in his sleeping bag. It’s going to get below freezing, but it’s nothing he hasn’t handled before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tries not to feel jealous of Pullman, wrapped up tight in his rustic paradise, probably sipping cocoa in front of the fire as the storm begins to rage around them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He presses a hand one last time to the pocket in the sleeping bag’s lining that has the sat phone, his hearing aids, and a couple more emergency protein bars. There won’t be anything to hear but the storm until his next status report so he’s comfortable taking out his ears after ensuring the phone is still set to vibrate. He forgoes using up any of his limited battery life reading, opting to doze until Agent Garrett calls to check in. He’s learned to get what sleep he can when he can. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>~~~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The nightmare is an old standard with a twist; instead of being made of whisky and hate it’s like Dad’s been carved out of ice, his snarls of rage are the sound of the howling wind and his touch leaves behind frostbite instead of bruises. One large frozen hand has him pinned down, the other alternates between backhanding and slapping him, snapping his head from side to side. He tries to get away, struggling against his father’s iron grip but he can’t; he can’t move, he can’t breathe, he can’t do anything but take it. Eventually the dream mirrors the memory and he gratefully blacks out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next thing he’s aware of is coming in and out of consciousness. His head is spinning and at some point he realizes he’s slung over someone’s back in a fireman’s carry. He can’t feel his arms and he knows that should be concerning but he can’t remember why. They trudge through blinding snow accompanied by what sounds like a steady stream of profanity for the entire SHIELD chain of command with not a few invectives aimed at Director Fury himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clint halfway thinks he may still be dreaming and then he blessedly goes back to not thinking anything at all. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Phil is going to kill Maria when he gets back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Nick, too, for that matter; he had to have signed off on this bullshit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maria, like the asshole she is, had obviously hand picked Barton. Phil’s supposed crush has been a running joke among his friends for far too long and he’s going to put an end to it when he gets back. So far he’s played along with the ‘joke’, agreeing with them in a deadpan meant to convey Phil’s long suffering patience for their bullshit is infinite; but even he has his limits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hill had felt it would be prudent for Phil to have some back up, what with the latest reports on the North Institute hits. Phil had vetoed the idea; the whole point of coming out here is to be alone, to stop thinking about work and clear his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He should have known that Hill wouldn’t take no for an answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>London. Alabama. Osaka. Shanghai. Sydney. It was only through a sophisticated algorithm and a lucky break they knew the heart attacks were professional hits at all, with only one thing linking the women targeted: they didn’t exist. Each one had a nearly perfect cover identity but that’s all they were, covers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, that and once SHIELD started digging deeper, they found that the heart attacks had all been induced with the same trace chemicals. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s one of the strangest cases to come across Phil’s desk in a while. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And who uses spider venom in the first place? So far they haven’t been able to identify the strain, making it difficult to pin down the supplier. There’s not much they can do without a fresh sample. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>NI is known as a boutique shop, which means these were custom ordered. Someone is trying to send a message, but SHIELD’s— </span>
  <em>
    <span>Phil’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> at a dead end and he hates the thought of waiting around for another body to drop. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Phil had once again lobbied for neutralizing what for all intents and purposes is an assassins’ guild; eliminate McMasters and the resulting civil war for leadership will give SHIELD the opening they need to get their own people embedded; which would be a win beyond getting the data they need on these hits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s irritated enough, fighting his way back to the cabin in a blizzard with 230lbs of thankfully not actually dead weight, that he starts contemplating how he might do it on his own. If he presents it as a fait accompli there’s not much Nick can do about it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not like he’d fire Phil. They have too much history; and besides the thought of Phil being loose in the world as a free agent is one of the few things that actually terrifies the man. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In as much as Fury even has feelings. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No. That’s not fair and Phil knows it; that’s just his irritation bringing up memories of older fights and deeper scars. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Really, he’s only upset with Fury for having signed off on Hill pulling Barton for this milk run; that and recruiting devious fuckers like her in the first place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Truth be told, he was fine getting saddled with a junior agent in a general sense. As much as it rankles having his private sanctuary intruded upon, it's not a completely ridiculous precaution; if nothing else they’d serve as a canary, letting Phil know that much sooner in the event hostile parties happened to find the place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that it was likely; it hasn’t happened in the twenty years he’s been with SHIELD and he’s only gotten more vigilant (read: paranoid) each successive year. He may come out here every year— more often if the world isn’t trying to burn itself to the ground, but never with any discernible pattern to the visits. He’s careful about not being tracked and extremely protective of both his space and his freedom. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mom had left Phil with Granddad every chance she could. He learned to walk on these trails and how to live off the land; he knows these woods better than his own heartbeat. There’s nowhere he feels safer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grandad taught Phil how to survive on his own and, even more importantly, that you could be alone without being lonely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he was nine, just after Dad passed, Mom started having them spend all of Phil’s school breaks out here: the long nearly warm months of summer, two weeks in winter, and another week in the spring; longer when he was able to get ahead on his schoolwork, which was often. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mom was, like her father, self contained and happy in solitude; she craved that solitude even more so with Dad gone. It wasn’t that she was distant, or withholding, just… separate, somehow. She once said that Dad was the only thing that brought her out into the world and Phil was the only thing that kept her there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dad gave him a love of technology and history, from the ancient world to the modern one; Mom had given him the peace and courage to explore both on his own terms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As much as he misses them, there’s something special about the cabin being his own. He can still see their ghosts sometimes. Granddad in the hand carved hope chest; the scrollwork matches the legs of the kitchen table, the one once barely large enough for three to share, now more than enough for just one person even with Phil’s current project spread all over it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mom is in the sound of the wind in the trees, ephemeral and ethereal, she spent most of her time out on her own with nothing more than a sleeping bag and weather-proof rucksack of art supplies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As a child, Phil had always left the cabin with a small carved figure and an almost as small roll of canvas, each with a spark of the wilderness caught in their grasps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The days of wood carvings and colorful canvases are long gone, but he carries the memories of them on in his own handiwork, transforming hide and fur into something both beautiful and practical. He’s currently tanning half a dozen rabbit pelts, not sure yet what he’s going to make with them. He has a couple more days before they’ll be ready, so he has time to decide.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the meantime, he’s got Barton to deal with. Phil thought he was going to have a heart attack when camera 4 went down, the branch it was on dramatically ripping through Barton’s tent and pinning him in place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Phil had just finished cleaning up after dinner when out of the corner of his eye he caught the white filled screen, tinted green from the night vision mode, flashing through a monochrome palette ending with Barton’s face, sweat beading his brow and a strained expression maring his features. The thermal view flashed orange fading to blue as the blizzard swept into the space between his face and the camera. Phil was moving nearly the same instant it happened, already calculating his steps, knowing it was madness to head out into the storm and blaming himself for not being more firm about Barton coming in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Based on Barton’s behavior, he was under orders to not disturb Phil; which Phil appreciates in the abstract. He’s good enough that Phil could almost dismiss the feeling of being watched as his carefully cultivated paranoia overacting if it hadn’t been for the hidden cameras catching brief glimpses of Barton. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Phil should have insisted he come in from the cold, countermanding whatever orders Barton’s been given about keeping his distance. No one knows better than Phil how dangerous these storms are but he had been more concerned with his own damn pride, of not wanting to admit that the gossip is right, that he has it bad for the agent and that his motives for inviting Barton in wouldn’t be completely pure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Phil spent the way out to Barton’s camp cursing himself and the trip back cursing anyone else he could think of. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time Phil had gotten to Barton he had been completely covered in snow and Phil had felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather when he had discovered the branch pinning Barton had managed to rip through his sleeping bag as well, further exposing him to the elements. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><span>Clint’s next clear thought is, </span><em><span>‘C-c-c-oooold,’ </span></em><span>and</span> <span>he struggles up out of his haze to find he’s been stripped naked and is shivering under a pile of soft fur blankets. </span></p>
<p>
  <span>“Th’f-f-fuck?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, (good?). Y**(r?) not d(ea)d,” Pullman says with a bland expression, as if he thought it could go either way but had no stake in the outcome.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s standing in the doorway into the small bathroom just to the right of the open kitchen; Clint can see it's filled by an oversized clawfoot tub with only enough room left over for the sink and toilet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pullman, stripped down to red thermal shirt, jeans, and warm looking socks, walks towards Clint slowly, trailing his hand across the back of a loveworn and comfortable looking sofa facing a roaring wood fire. Clint’s things are spread out to dry. His sleeping bag looks ruined and he swallows as he sees his sat phone resting on the closer end table. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>From where Clint’s bundled up he can see the kitchen has an industrial sized refrigerator, a gas stove with a decent sized pot of something at a simmer next to a smaller saucepan that’s steaming, and the cabin smells amazing. There’s also a large sink with both a regular tap and an old fashioned hand pump. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To the left of that is the corner of the cabin on the opposite side of the front door. There’s a carved wood kitchen table, maybe three feet square, between the open kitchen and a desk shoved into the corner under a bank of monitors hanging from the wall showing a band of swirling greenish-white across the top set and a band of blue on the bottom, interrupted by one set of monitors, top and bottom, which are dark.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pullman reaches the bed and says something Clint can barely lip read, “*’m go(ing) to t**ch you now. Pl(ease) tr(y) not to at***k (me).”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“W-wh’hap?” Clint slurs, trying to fold in on himself. He’s so fucking cold and he can’t stop shivering.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You tr(ie)d to t(ou)gh out a bliz(zard) inst*** of ta(k)ing me up on my p(er)fectly ***son*ble (of)fer of a hot m**l and a w(ar)m fire,” he reaches for Clint and Clint manages to not throw up his hands in defense; mostly because Clint’s not sure his arms will obey him but also he somehow trusts the other man. Maybe it’s because, while not a field agent like Clint, he’s still an agent of SHIELD, which earns him at least a little good faith. Not to mention the whole ‘saving Clint from freezing to death’ thing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“B-b-b’ w-wh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tree fell **rou** your t(en)t; you’re **cky it miss(ed) y(ou)r head,” Pullman presses the back of his hand to Clint’s cheek and Clint flinches away from the heat and then leans into it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“S(t)ay,” Pullman says with a sardonic twist of his lips as he steps away; it’s obvious Clint’s not capable of going anywhere. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clint’s eyes flutter shut and then what could be a minute or could be several hours later, he feels a hand brush through his hair. His eyes flutter open and Pullman asks, “Can (you) s(it?) ** for me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“… M-mayb-be?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let me (h)elp you,” he says, half lifting Clint’s shaking shoulders and propping up several pillows behind him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“*** do (you)r fin***tips f(ee)l?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clint gasps, realizing what he could have lost and he clenches his fists, sighing in relief as he feels the movement of each finger, “C-cold.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you th**k (you) can p*t th*** in?” He holds out Clint’s aids.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clint struggles to free his arms but gives up, panting; it’s just too much effort. He glares at his aids as if they’re to blame. Hating the feeling of helplessness that swamps him he asks, “C-c-can y-y-you…?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even with Pullman’s hands as warm and gentle as they are, Clint tenses up, the sensation painful with as much as he’s shivering.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Better?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clint nods, “Th-th-thanks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good. I want you to drink this,” he says, taking a steaming mug from the nightstand and lifting it up to Clint’s mouth. Clint leans his head forward; Pullman braces the back of Clint’s neck and tilts the mug against his trembling lips. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He slowly drinks what turns out to be molten mulled cider and moans in ecstasy; he has never had anything that tasted or felt as good as the ambrosia sliding down his throat. The mug was only half full and he finishes it far too soon. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fucking hell, if that’s not the sexiest sound Phil has ever heard. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had this stupid crush under control. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Really, he did. He could deal with Barton traipsing around his woods (and no, he isn’t about to examine why that is), and if he had admired the way Barton moved silently through the snow blanketed woods and his quiet competence, it was purely on a professional level. There was even a time or two where Phil had lost track of him, which is impressive as hell. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So what if he feels a little guilty for watching Barton’s every move on the security system. It’s not like he’s stalking the guy; this is </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> land after all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Point in fact, if he hadn’t been watching he wouldn’t have been lucky enough to see Barton‘s tent get compromised and Phil wouldn’t have been there to save Barton’s life.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not that that eases his guilt at all regarding the fact that the only reason Barton is out here, hours away from any real help, is Phil. His life wouldn’t have been in danger in the first place if Phil hadn’t run off to sulk. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clint looks up from the mug into Pullman’s eyes, the dossier hadn’t done them justice, his eyes aren’t the blue of his employee photo, maybe because in the photo they’re obscured by his dark rimmed glasses. They have flecks of gold and brown and Clint thinks he could get lost in them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pullman’s cheeks are flushed and his grip tightens on the mug and the back of Clint’s neck as Clint plaintively asks, “M-More? P-Please?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man nods and swallows, looking away; this time Clint stays conscious as Pullman walks back to the stove and ladles cider into the mug. Clint hasn’t had a chance to appreciate it until now but Pullman’s jeans don’t leave much to the imagination and, surprisingly for a Level 3 drone— though maybe not considering the Ranger Rick schtick— he’s got an ass that won’t quit. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clint’s able to sit up a little on his own and drags his hands out from under the blankets; they shake as he tries to take the mug and Pullman’s voice rumbles as he says, “Easy, kid. Take your time,” and he steadies the mug as Clint drinks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can’t help but moan again because, fuck, it’s still the best thing he’s ever tasted, warm and sweet, hints of orange and cinnamon and ginger and he can feel it heating him up from the inside. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Phil takes the mug back and then says, “Uh, you’ve got,” he shrugs and touches his own bottom lip unable to tear his eyes away from the cider clinging to Barton’s mouth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um,” Clint uses his trembling thumb to gather the cider from his lip and darts out his tongue to capture it, not wanting to waste a drop.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Phil clears his throat. If he didn’t know Barton was half gone from hypothermia he would swear the man was doing it on purpose.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, well. Let’s see if getting something warm and sweet in you helps.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before Clint can get his sluggish brain to formulate a response, Pullman’s walking away. He sets the mug on the kitchen counter and then comes back to feel Clint’s cheek again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re still colder than I like. How do you feel?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“C-Cold. Sleepy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, kid; I think we’re going to need body heat. You’re not warming up as quickly as I would like. I’m going to get under the covers with you, okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um. ‘K-kay,” a whole lot better than okay and he’s kind of glad his blood’s not paying attention or this could get real awkward real fast. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well. More awkward then having the guy you’re supposed to be protecting save you from a blizzard, strip you naked, and treat you like the boneheaded invalid man child that you are. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Phil’s economical as he pulls off his jeans and thermal shirt, folding and then setting them down in the nightstand, leaving him in just his red thermal pants, “This may be cold for just a second,” he says as he lifts the covers and then quickly settles in next to Barton.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clint shivers increase and he pretends it’s the momentary brush of cool air against his skin and not the feeling of Pullman’s warm body pressing against his side. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you okay spooning?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...S-spoon?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you’re not comfortable with that we can go back to back?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“N-no, I… i-if’s-s’kay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I wouldn't have offered if it wasn’t. Do you want to be big spoon or little spoon?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“N-nev’ g-get’t-t’be lil’ s-spoon,” Clint says petulantly, and he feels grouchy all of a sudden, pulling his arms tight against his body and curling inward, as if anything could make him seem anything other than massive. It’s not like anything he does matters anyway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You do today. Come here,” Phil says, maneuvering Barton to his side, bringing his back to Phil’s front. Phil wraps his arm around Barton’s waist, his other arm tucking up under the pillows as he pulls Barton in close, “Let me know if anything makes you uncomfortable.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“S’nice,” Clint murmurs, feeling himself slip back towards unconsciousness, the tightness in his spine releasing as he feels Pullman’s warmth against his back and his shivering eases. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey now. Stay with me. I want to keep you awake until I’m sure you’re out of the danger zone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sleepy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know, kid, but I need you to stay with me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“‘M’not a kid.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re twenty-six; you’re a baby,” Phil needles, trying to keep Barton engaged. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh-uh,” Barton disagrees, snuggling back into Phil, and Phil’s a bad, bad man for enjoying it so much.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Barton’s body relaxes in a way that tells Phil he’s about to drift off again, and Phil laces his words with a hint of steel, “C’mon Barton. Talk to me. I need you to stay with me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pullman’s tone does something to Clint, not just pulling him out of the dreamy haze he had been slipping into, and he shivers, this time with want instead of cold and it’s just enough of a distraction for his idiot brain to say, “W’could fuck?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Phil freezes, his nose is practically pressed against the back of Barton’s neck and he has absolutely no right to smell as good as he does and for three full, insane, seconds Phil imagines it, the warm slick slide of skin against skin, the taste of Barton’s mouth still sweet from the cider, the way he would feel sinking into Phil’s heat; his mind recreates Barton’s noise of indulgent pleasure— He shakes it off, pulling his hips away before Barton can feel him stir. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once he’s under control he eases back, resolving to forget he heard anything. Barton’s half out of his mind and probably doesn’t even know where he is, much less what he’s saying. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How about you tell me about your dog, instead?” Phil asks, searching for a safe topic, hoping Barton won’t question how Phil knows he has a dog.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clint smiles, “Lucky? ‘S’the best. Likes pizza. ‘S my best friend, ‘cept Kate. She’s takin’ care of ‘im for me. Kate, Kate, Katie-Kate.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s Kate like?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Kate’s the best. Better’n the best,” Barton yawns, “Better’n me. Sleep now?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Phil rests his hand on Barton’s arm; it isn’t as cold as it had been but it could be better. He brings his fingertips up to Barton’s throat and is relieved at how steady Barton’s pulse is.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clint hums softly and tilts his head, pushing his neck into the touch; this is just about perfect and he thinks he could sleep for a hundred years or so.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Phil says as Barton starts to drift off again. Barton needs to stay awake at least until his core temperature is back to normal. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clint shrinks back down at the rejection; of course Pullman doesn’t want to touch him more than necessary.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How did you meet her?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Kate.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How do you know Kate?” Clint asks suspiciously.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Phil resolutely doesn’t sigh, “You said she was taking care of Lucky?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lucky’s the best.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How did you get Lucky?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wanna get lucky now. Feeling warmer. We could fuck now?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No. You don’t know what you’re saying,” and even if he did it would be inappropriate on just about every level; not that the admonishment keeps Phil from using his hand on Barton’s chest to pull his back more flush against Phil’s chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do, too. You're hot,” Barton giggles, and presses his ass back into the cradle of Phil’s thighs, “All kinds of hot.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Phil pins Barton in place with a firm grip on his hip.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clint whimpers when Pullman removes his hand from Clint’s where it rests over his heartbeat and then moans when his fingers tighten on Clint’s hip, “Could fuck me ‘n tell me I’m pretty and then we could sleep? Ugh. Wanna sleep.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jesus, you’ve got a one track mind.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll one track your mind.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Phil huffs a laugh and casts about for another topic, “You’ve been with SHIELD, what, six months?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, sounds right.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you think so far? You were a solo act before, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clint giggles, if only Pullman knew. Something niggles at the back of his mind but disappears before he can latch on to it, “Yeah. Yeah, you could say that. SHIELD’s okay, I guess?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Phil tries not to turn this into a debrief but he’s curious, “You guess?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s just. I miss my bow.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Huh.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Phil thought it had been a personal choice. He knew Barton’s background, orphan turned circus trickshot turned assassin for hire; it wasn’t the strangest Phil’s heard, but it’s up there. As an assassin Hawkeye was known for using whatever tools were necessary to get the job done, which had included a bow and arrow on occasion, but Phil had thought eschewing it once he had joined SHIELD had been a personal choice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tell me about your bow, kid.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s probably a mix of Barton warming up and talking about something he’s passionate about, he seems more lucid as he talks, eventually turning to face Phil so that he can include gestures. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Phil gets caught up in it; Barton’s an animated and amusing storyteller and Phil smiles at the way Barton’s eyes seem to sparkle, the curve of his lips, the way he—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Phil’s pulled from the disastrous train of thought by Barton’s phone rattling on the end table.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll get it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, I should—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You should stay put,” Phil says, tucking the sheet in around Barton before layering the blankets back over him and grabbing the phone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clint’s feeling much better, but is still out of it enough that he doesn’t protest like he should; instead he’s too busy admiring the planes of Pullman’s shoulder, the way his back dips down to— woah. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At some point someone shot Pullman in the back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Twice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Those aren’t the only scars, either. Pullman may be Level 3 now, but if he isn’t a former field agent Clint will eat his hearing aids. Unless maybe he’s a double agent? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shit. Clint really hopes not. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Status report,” Garrett barks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>‘Oh, this is going to be fun,’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>Phil thinks to himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clint listens in on Pullman’s side of the conversation and is a little shocked when he hears him say, “You don’t call, you don’t write…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, shit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Phil waits Garrett out. He’s nothing if not patient. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Garrett sighs, “Look, Phil, this is not on me; when Hill says ‘jump’, I say how high, when it’s signed by the big boss I don’t even ask, I just start jumpin’.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re a regular Fosbury.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I take it my minion is okay? You’re a cold hearted son of a bitch, Phil, but even you would can the banter if he was dead.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How sure of that are you, John? ” Phil asks in his firmest deadpan, getting a little payback, “Care to make a wager?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>‘John?</span>
  </em>
  <span>’ Clint mouths to himself; Pullman answering the phone flippantly is one thing, calling Clint’s Supervising Officer by his first name is a whole nother ball game. At least he’s pretty sure Pullman’s not a double agent, now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“For fuck’s sake, Phil, did you shoot my agent? I swear to God, if I have to fill out another AR-26 because you put a bullet in one of my—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Relax. I didn’t shoot him; though it would serve you all right if I had. Tell Maria next time she wants to go behind my back, do it to my face.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maria? Maria— oh shit. Hill. Deputy Director of SHIELD. Fury’s right hand, executing his plans and steering the whole operation; possibly more frightening than Director Fury. Fury’s a boogeyman, there are rumors and legends from when he was in the field that still echo down the halls but that’s all they are; no one’s seen him in action in years. Hill on the other hand is in the thick of it, earning her reputation every day.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hell, next thing you know the guy will go after Coulson. If Hill is Fury’s right hand, Coulson is his left; the boogeyman’s boogeyman. No title, just a name, Phil Coulson does the things Hill and her teams can’t or won’t do. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, no. I know better than to get in between the two of you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your ‘know better’ is half frozen in my bed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a moment of stunned silence as neither Garrett nor Phil can believe what he just let slip with his possessive tone, “I’m hanging up now. You can check in with Barton at 08:00.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What the fuck? Who the hell is this guy?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Damn it, don’t tell me I owe Sitwell twen—” Phil disconnects the call. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That was,” Clint starts, and then realizes something, “How do you know my name?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s my job to know things.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wait. Pullman obviously recognized Agent Garrett’s voice, which in turn makes it obvious that Clint is one of his agents; one of three to be precise and seeing as he’s neither a woman nor a black man it isn’t that difficult to narrow down who Clint is. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You look like you’re doing better. Up for some stew? I’d like to get a couple more calories in you and make sure you're stable before we sleep.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, God,” Clint moans, “That sounds like heaven.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The stew or sleep?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Both.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here, these are dry. Are you up for sitting at the table?” Phil hands over Barton’s thermals.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. I think so.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good. If you need help dressing or getting to the table let me know. I’m pretty sure you’re out of the woods, but don’t push yourself,” Phil assesses Barton, he’s stopped shivering and has good color in his cheeks; his eyes are clear and his gaze direct, “As much fun as it is carrying you to bed, I doubt either of us really want a repeat performance.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pullman’s gaze is penetrating and Clint feels like all his secrets are on display. Strangely enough, Clint doesn’t hate it. Clint says with his most inviting smile, “Speak for yourself. I was mostly unconscious last time and so didn’t get to enjoy it properly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shirt. Pants. Table,” Pullman orders, as if Clint had no effect on him, but Clint catches the kiss of a curl at the corner of Pullman’s mouth and knows he’s getting to the older man. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Phil turns his back, going to get a couple bowls down from the cabinet before he can say or do anything imprudent. He’s exerted himself enough that having another bowl would be good for him as well. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clint manages to get dressed without too much trouble, though he feels a little bit like he’s moving through molasses. He takes his time shuffling over to the table, sitting down with a sigh. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pullman sets down a full mug of the cider and pushes it towards Clint. Clint wraps both hands around it as he inhales the steam. He takes a sip and hums in pleasure before saying, “This is the best thing I’ve ever put on my mouth.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Phil had been setting the empty cider pan in the sink and it clatters as Barton’s voice wraps around him thick as sin. He has to grab onto the edge counter to hold himself still, to to keep from turning and showing Barton the exact effect his words have had on him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait until you taste my stew,” Phil says when he’s sure the sex won’t show in his voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pullman uses his same dry tone that Clint’s getting used to, he knows it shouldn’t turn him on the way it does; but with that little bit of a pause before he said ‘stew’ when for a second Clint thought he might say something else he feels a bolt of lust nearly splits him in two, even as tired as he feels. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe Pullman could do all the work? Clint’ll take whatever Pullman is willing to give him. Maybe he’ll let Clint give him sloppy blowjob; or not even that, just a cold and methodical face fucking. Yeah, Clint could really go for that. Or maybe he’ll let Clint lie back and get fucked to sleep. Sleeping and fucking are just about the two greatest things he can think of right now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pullman sets a bowl of stew in front of him and Clint thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘Three. Fucking and sleeping and eating.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Phil tries to ignore the satisfaction that settles him in his bones as Barton tucks into the stew with as much relish as he had drinking the cider; some caveman throwback nonsense that makes Phil want to — better to not think about what it makes Phill want to do.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Phil brings Barton a chunk of the sourdough bread he had baked earlier that day and then gets his own bowl and bread. They eat in companionable silence; if you can count Phil’s inconvenient lust companionable. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clint’s good for a second bowl but before he can get up Pullman rests two fingers on Clint’s wrist and he feels heat sear through him from the small touch; if he hadn’t been warm enough before he certainly is now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let me,” Phil says, ignoring the spark that runs through him when he touches the fragile skin at Barton’s wrist. Phil resists pulling away like he’s been burned or circling Barton’s wrist with his fingers and gently squeezing, or any of the other ill-advised actions that cross his mind. He ladles Barton another helping of stew and then sits back down to finish his own. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Phil had assumed Barton would be chatty, a common thread in each of his handlers reports is the fact that Barton never seems to shut up and while on the one hand the silence is nice, on the other it’s concerning. Phil’s hoping a decent night's sleep will get Barton back to normal, while part of him sort of dreads the peace being broken. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clint’s sleepily cleaning the bowl with his last scrap of bread, his other hand propping up his head when Pullman says, “Why don’t you go back to bed. You should be safe to sleep by now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmmmm. Bed,” Clint mumbles. Out of all the things he wants to do in bed with Pullman, sleep is currently at the top of his list. Maybe they can have acrobatic monkey sex in the morning. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shuffles over to the bed and crawls under the furs; still unimaginably soft and warm. More than half of the table had been covered in pelts in various stages of tanning and he thinks maybe the blankets are handmade. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Phil stows the remaining stew in the fridge and then finishes with the dishes, drying and putting away the bowls and silverware and then turns out the lights, leaving the room bathed in the soft glow of the smoldering fire and the monitors. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Phil banks the fire, the room’s at a good temperature and with the furs Barton should sleep well. He goes to the couch, setting aside the ruined but at least now dry remains of Barton’s sleeping bag, and grabs the knitted afghan from where it’s folded over one armrest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What are you doing?” Clint asks from where he’s burrowed into a little cave of warmth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Taking the couch.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not kicking you out of your own bed. It’ll be fine. We’ve already shared it once and this time I’ll even be wearing clothes. I promise not to take advantage of you until the morning.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Phil can’t help his low chuckle, if anyone should be making that promise it’s him but it’s nice to see that Barton has a bit of a sense of humor about all this. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pullman’s soft laugher is dark and sweet, promising and warning all at once and yes. Yes, Clint wants that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But in the morning. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Barton holds open the blankets, “C’mon. No one likes a martyr. Get in.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Phil wars with himself, the room’s warm enough that with the afghan, especially this close to the coals, he’ll be fine; but something in Barton’s beseeching grin is irresistible and he finds his resolve weaken, “I should warn you, I, uh, I’m a bit of a cuddler.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A bit is an understatement; Nick had once called him heat seeking octopus, but then Nick isn’t much on cuddling. It wasn’t in the top ten of why they had split up but it was on the list. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even with as amicable as the divorce had been, it had made Phil wary of any entanglements with co-workers. It had taken years for them to feel comfortable around each other again and Phil had maybe coped by burying himself a little too deeply into work.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Cuddle away, man. I can take anything you can dish out,” Barton says with a sleepy smirk. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Phil wants to kiss the look right off his face and second guesses himself immediately even as he crawls into bed next to Barton. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know, Nick said the same thing,” mentioning your ex is a surefire way to kill the mood right? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not that there’s a mood to kill. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>‘Jesus, Phil, get it together.’</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eventually reality sets in. It always does.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well that sounds bleak. Clint can’t help but ask, doing his best to hide his unearned jealousy, “Nick?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ex,” Phil thought everyone knew but apparently his divorce is old enough news that it no longer makes it’s way around the water cooler.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well you’re ex-boyfriend didn’t know how good he had it. You want me to kick his ass just say the word.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s that laugh again, dark chocolate and whiskey and it just </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> things to Clint, okay? Not just pants things.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not often Phil finds someone who wants to go to bat for him and it twists at something warm inside him that he is resolutely not examining, “Husband, and that could get really awkward, considering that I still have to take my orders from him,” he shrugs, “Not that I really get orders these days. But I appreciate the thought.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, but the offer stands.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s an impressive, if foolish sentiment, doubling down after Phil spells out who his ex is, “I’ll keep it in mind.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, here. Set these on the nightstand for me,” Clint takes out his aids and hands them over before he can think too much about how vulnerable it makes him feel.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s fine. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This is fine. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He takes a breath and is startled to realize it really is fine. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wants to poke at it, wondering why that is, but the stress of the evening and the weariness in his bones mix with the still warm cocoon of blankets and he drifts off to sleep before he can even consider the repercussions.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>True to his warning, Clint wakes up after what’s almost certainly the deepest sleep of his life to find Pullman’s arms and legs wrapped around him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s dim in the room, white at the windows and monitors on the far wall showing that it’s day and that the storm is still raging on. The monitors spread their glow across the kitchen, but the banked fire’s light barely reaches the hearth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s the little spoon again— it’s almost worse, knowing how good it feels when it’s something that he’ll never get in real life. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He needs to move but for now he isn’t willing to break the spell of Pullman’s arms around him, their only movement the rise and fall of their chests. He thinks the cabin would be silent even if he had his ears in; if there is any sound then it would only be Pullman’s breathing and he can track that by the ebb and flow of warmth on the back of his neck. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He drifts awhile in that cozy space until he feels Pullman’s lips against his skin and their slight vibrations let him know he’s saying something, though not what.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Phil’s half a sleep, not sure what’s real and what’s a dream; Barton’s weight is comfortably solid, but part of him knows it’s too good to be true. Phil nuzzles into his neck and murmurs, “Don’t wanna wake up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clint turns in Pullman’s arms and watches his mouth as he asks, “What was that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pullman’s eyes stay closed and his words get lost in his goofy smile, “*** goo(d?) dr**(m?). D(on?)* wan* ** (wa?)** *p.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hold on, babe, let me get my—,” Clint reaches past Pullman and grabs his hearing aids. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Their bodies twist and Clint ends up propped over Pullman, the older man remains wrapped around him like a particularly affectionate spider monkey and it’s kind of really adorable. Clint gets a perfect view of his eyes slowly blinking open before Pullman says, “Huh. Not a dream.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Barton smiles and it makes Phil’s arms tighten around the other man before he remembers himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry about that,” Phil wills down his blush reflex, years of training keep him from showing how embarrassed he is as he lowers his arms and legs, “I did warn you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s okay, I liked it,” Barton says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Phil wants to kiss the quirk of his mouth, is seriously considering it, when he processes Barton’s endearment, “Babe?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you get to call me ‘kid’, I get to call you ‘babe’.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The difference is you actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> a kid.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m— wait. I’m twenty-six; which you knew last night. How?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I told you, it’s my job to know things.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clint rolls his eyes, “Whatever you say, </span>
  <em>
    <span>babe</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I’ve read your file too, you know. It isn’t that much of a difference.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Twenty years is absolutely a big difference, but Phil is finding it hard to argue at the moment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Barton is warm and a little sleepy, it’s kind of endearing and Phil once again feels the urge to kiss him. Phil isn’t usually sleep drunk in the morning, too many years of having to wake up and be instantly alert and ready for anything, but something about the isolated safety of the cabin, particularly as insulated as it feels with the continuing blizzard, and the way Barton’s incredibly impressive arms are sheltering him, he feels free to be lazy and a little indulgent. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Though there’s still something else holding him back and, while part of him curses himself for it, before taking Barton up on what he’s clearly offering, another part of part of Phil, the part that needs to account for every variable, prompts him to ask, “And the difference in rank?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If it doesn’t bother you, it doesn’t bother me. It’s not like we’re in the same chain of command or anything, right?” Clint licks his lips. He really, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> hopes it doesn’t bother Pullman. If it does, Clint will respect that but, damn, what a waste it would be of some of the best chemistry Clint’s ever felt in his life. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even better than what he had with Bobbie, and they had gotten along like a house on fire. ‘Til it all burned to the ground. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Which is why Clint needs to be careful about this. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Phil’s eyes lock on to Barton’s lips; he’s got a mouth made for sin, a thin scar bisects the right edge and it’s like a target calling out to Phil. He swallows and lifts his head until their lips are close enough that they brush each other as he double checks one last time, “You’re sure it doesn’t bother you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do I seem bothered? Stop questioning it and kiss me already, damn it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Phil gives in, crossing the line from teasing into action; starting with a gentle press of his lips and an exploratory lick with the tip of his tongue. Barton moans and opens for him, the tip of his tongue coming out to meet Phil’s and it’s a languid exploration, each of them easing a little deeper into the kiss in turn, a dance of lips and tongues and now teeth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Phil’s fingertips press into Barton’s back and Phil hitches one of his legs up around Barton’s hip. Phil’s head is bracketed by Barton’s elbows and he relishes the closeness; he’s missed this. It’s not like he’s been abstinent since the divorce, but none of his encounters since have had this level of intimacy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hot damn, can Pullman kiss. Clint loses himself in it; it starts off gentle but ramps up quickly, until Clint’s thrusting down into the cradle of Pullman’s legs. Pullman’s hands are all over him, pressing into his back and then sliding down to his ass and pulling him right until there’s only the thin layers of their thermals between their dicks and Clint moans into Pullman’s mouth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clint loses track of time; everything is heat and pleasure as they thrust, kiss, and bite. When he doesn’t think he can take anymore he slides his hand inside Pullman’s pants and wraps his hand around Pullman’s dick, pressing his frenulum and then thumbing the head, not surprised to find it as wet as his own.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, yes. Fuck. You feel so good,” Phil’s breath catches at the feeling of Barton’s hand on his cock, warm and sure and deliberate, he tilts his head back and moans, “Feel even better with your cock in my ass.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Holy fuck, yes!” Clint kisses his way down to Pullman’s ear and breathes out a question, “Lube?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nightstand. Wait. Fuck,” Phil grabs Barton’s wrists stilling his hand on Phil’s cock and giving himself room to breath, “I don’t have any condoms.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clint looks down into Pullman’s eyes, “You know everything, so you must know I’m clean.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s not—,” Phil frowns, “You should be safer with yourself. I don’t know what all Garrett gave you, but I’m pretty sure it didn’t include the fact that I’m STD free,” though, honestly, Phil wouldn’t put it past Maria to slip that tidbit in. She’s one of only two people with full access to his SHIELD medical files. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clint squeezes his hand, articulating his fingers one after another to mimic the slow slide Pullman had paused, “I trust you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s a dangerous thing to say; especially in our line of work.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clint shrugs, “And yet here. We. Are,” Clint punctuates each word with an aborted stroke, tugging against Pullman’s surprisingly firm grip. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t test me on this, Barton,” Phil says, tightening his fingers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pencil pusher Clint’s ass, he can feel the gun callouses digging into his wrist; that and the combination of concern and menace in Pullman’s voice practically has him coming untouched.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck! Fuck. Okay. Okay,” Clint relents, no longer fighting Pullman’s grasp.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Plenty of fun to be had without penetration,” Phil feels a hungry smile curl his lip as he slowly starts moving Barton’s hand up and down his cock.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe… maybe when we get back to civilization?” Clint asks hopefully, while bracing himself for disappointment. Before Pullman can speak he adds, “If— if you want to keep this going I mean. No pressure,” he squeezes his hand around Pullman’s dick as Pullman uses Clint’s hand to jack off and God damn he didn’t realize that was a thing he was into but it’s quickly rising to the top of his list. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’d like that,” Phil says letting a hint of his relief slip through, “I thought maybe it was only me— oh, fuck yeah, baby, just like that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clint’s squeezing on the upstroke and letting his hand go loose on the down stroke and Pullman starts thrusting his hips in counterpoint to the way he strokes Clint’s hand on his dick.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Phil fumbles for the drawer, blindly getting out the lube and then pulling both of their pants down to expose their cocks. He slicks up his own cock, the lube slipping between Barton’s fingers, before wrapping his wet hand around Barton’s.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“FUCK!” Clint’s voice is torn from his throat; if he had thought he was going to lose it just from touching Pullman’s dick, it’s nothing compared to the way he feels when that warm wet heat starts sliding up and down his length, Pullman keeping the same rhythm with both hands, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m not gonna last, babe.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve got you. Want to see it. Want to see you come apart for me. Can you do that? Can you come for me baby?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clint’s fucking gone, spilling over Pullman’s hand and Pullman keeps stroking him through it as he fucks Clint’s hand, not stopping even as Clint finishes, drawing out his orgasm as long as possible and then continuing even as it becomes oversensitive, past the point most people would stop and Clint whimpers as tears leak from his eyes but he doesn’t stop it, let’s it keep going and going and he loves it, wants Pullman to keep stroking his abused dick until Pullman comes too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck, you’re perfect, baby, just like that. Can you take it for me?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Barton’s arm trembles from where it’s keeping him propped up over Phil and he’s crying soundlessly but he nods his head. Phil’s practically drowning in the blue blue blue depths of Barton’s eyes, his pale lashes sticking together with his tears and Barton bites his lip before whispering, “Kiss me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Anything you want, baby,” Phil soothes Barton’s lip with a soft kiss, “Anything you want,” he repeats before deepening the kiss. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tasting the salt of Barton’s tears on his tongue pushes Phil over the edge and his groan is guttural as his cock spurts between them. He’s no more gentle with himself than he was with Barton, making Barton stroke him well past the point of anything resembling comfortable; he feels his own eyes water but he keeps going until he can’t take it anymore, knowing it’s been even more difficult for Barton, having to suffer longer but he just keeps taking it, taking everything Phil gives him until his arm gives in and he collapses on top of Phil but even then he doesn’t reach between them to stop Phil and Phil realizes with awe that Barton’s not going to stop him, that he’s taking whatever Phil gives him and he feels his body valiantly try to come again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pullman’s hands still, his touch going from blissfully painful to comforting and Clint kind of wants to burrow into it; he tucks his face into Pullman’s neck and takes a deep breath, the tail end of it coming out as a raspy chuckle. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wow,” he nuzzles and kisses his way back to Pullman’s mouth, “Not to give you an ego or anything, babe, but that may have been the best orgasm of my life.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Definitely top ten.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Only top ten? Guess I’ll have to try harder next time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It… it wasn’t too much? I— I probably shouldn’t have sprung that on you at the end.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No. I could have stopped you. I, um, I liked it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good. I liked it, too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Though,” Barton pushes up over him, “I’m not super enjoying the stickiness now. I’m going to go clean up a little. Want a washcloth?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“God, you’re perfect.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You rest here, old man, and let me take care of you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Whatever you say, kid.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Clint’s handing Pullman a warm damp cloth when his sat phone vibrates.</p><p>“Status Report.”</p><p>Shit.</p><p>Clint schools his voice into something approaching detached, “Principal is secure in dwelling. Operational security’s been blown, obviously. I’m not sure how I gave myself away but I suppose I should be grateful since my fuck up probably saved my live. I’m still putting together what happened; I’ll have a full report by the next check in. I’ll return to position once the storm dies down.”</p><p>“Like hell,” Phil says; he doesn’t want things to go back the way they were and will do his damndest to convince Barton there’s no reason for him to go back to sleeping in the woods when he could be in Phil’s bed at night. </p><p>“Yeah, well, shit happens to the best of us, son. You’ve done the best you could with what you were given. Just don't let Phil eat you alive. Or do, I won’t judge.”</p><p>“I’m sorry, sir?” What does he mean ‘Phil’?</p><p>“Just don’t let him get too bossy on you; he won’t ever admit it, but he likes a challenge.”</p><p>“I— what?”</p><p>“Hell, Barton, I’m just giving you shit. Don't let this… whatever it is with Coulson go to your head. Cover his six, trust his intuition, and don’t let him run roughshod over you. You’ll be fine.”</p><p>Clint’s blood runs cold at the name but he manages a clipped, “Yes, sir.”</p><p>“And hey, sorry for the subterfuge. Phil’s really private about who he lets on his land. Deputy Director Hill made the call to give him as much anonymity as possible.”</p><p>“Of course, sir. I understand.”</p><p>“Storm’s set to run the rest of the day. I won’t bother to check in until tomorrow morning. And Barton? Be careful.”</p><p>“Yes, sir.”</p><p>Fuck. Knowing who he was actually sharing space with, not just space but fucking <em> sex </em>, is terrifying enough but in the entire time Garrett has been his S.O. not once has he warned Clint to be careful. </p><p>And what did he mean, on the op? On a personal level? Clint just doesn’t know what to do with it. </p><p>Clint isn’t sure how long he stands there with the phone still held up to his ear after Garrett hangs up. Long enough that Pullman— </p><p>No. </p><p>
  <em> Coulson.</em>
</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>Long enough for Coulson to sit up on the edge of the bed and look at Clint with a quizzical expression, “Barton?”</p><p>And no wonder he knows everything about Clint, knew Clint was watching him, knew Clint was in trouble and needed saving. </p><p>He’s Phil fucking Coulson. </p><p>Clint is so screwed. </p><p>“Barton, are you okay?” Phil asks again; Barton’s been staring blankly at him for a disconcertingly long time, “Is something wrong?”</p><p>“I— No! No. I just. Sorry—,” Clint stops himself from saying sir— it would be weird if Clint started calling him ‘sir’ now, right? “I think I’m gonna take a shower if that’s okay?”</p><p>“Of course. Anything you need,” the atmosphere has changed, is charged in some way it wasn’t before, and so Phil doesn’t offer to join him, “There are fresh towels folded on top of the shelf over the washer and dryer, just to the left.”</p><p>Barton nods and walks into the bathroom, still holding the phone up to his ear as he shuts the door behind him.</p><p>Whatever Garrett said has Barton spooked but hopefully by giving Barton some space he’ll shake it off. </p><p>In the meantime Phil can start working on breakfast. </p><p>~~~</p><p>
  <em> ‘Holy motherfucking cake eating son of a futzing bastard.’ </em>
</p><p>Clint lets the hot water pour over him as he tries to get his head back on straight, calling himself every name in the book while he’s at it. </p><p><em> ‘Barton, you </em> dummy.<em>’ </em></p><p>It’s his own fault for not listening to himself. He knew something was off, that it didn’t make sense for someone like ‘Tom Pullman’ to need Clint’s kind of protection. </p><p>A million other little things add up, too. All the times he thought he was being watched he almost certainly was. The way Coulson seemed to neatly avoid all of Clint’s encampments while always staying in Clint’s sight when out in the woods. </p><p>He wonders if he would have even been able to shadow Coulson if the man hadn’t let him. </p><p>Coulson. </p><p>He is so futzing fucked. </p><p>Clint uses Coulson’s shampoo and body wash, it’s light citrus scent reminding him of the taste of Coulson’s skin and for a moment his panic ebbs and he debates jacking off to the memory of Couldon’s hand on his dick and the frankly mind blowing sex they just had. </p><p>Okay, so the dossier Garrett had given him had obviously been bullshit, but Coulson’s still the same guy Clint’s been shadowing for a week. His quiet competence is no longer surprising, nor is Garrett’s admonishment for Clint to keep his distance. Whatever Coulson’s working on, it’s likely both dangerous and well above Clint’s pay grade. </p><p>Coulson’s concern over their different ranks makes a lot more sense as well; Coulson’s outside the chain of command but he definitely outranks Clint, the only one above him is Director Fury. </p><p>Director <em> Nick </em> Fury. </p><p>Coulson’s ex-husband who used to cuddle with Coulson until it got to be too much. </p><p>Coulson’s ex who Clint had offered to beat up. </p><p>As if that alone wasn’t worth panicking over. </p><p>He closes his eyes and concentrates only on the water. The antique brass shower head curves up over him, high enough that he doesn’t have to duck, and as the water falls down on and around him he breathes in the steam that fills the deceptively large room. </p><p>After about fifteen minutes Clint sighs. It’s time to face the music; he can’t hide out here forever. </p><p>The towels are fluffy and a shade of blue that matches Coulson’s eyes and Clint’s reminded of the way Coulson had looked at him as if he were something precious, something wonderful to be treasured. </p><p>Whatever the stories, no matter how true— and some of them have to be exaggerations, right? Coulson is still just a man. A gorgeous man that wants Clint, maybe even as much as Clint wants him. Clint won’t let his awe or trepidation get in the way of what appears to be a budding relationship. </p><p>Coulson had specifically talked about continuing this whatever it is after they leave the cabin and, unlike Clint, had been well aware of who they both were and had given every indication that he thought Clint knew as well.</p><p>He wraps one towel around his narrow waist and uses another to fluff out his hair. Slinging that towel around his neck he opens the door, letting steam billow out around him as he leans against the opening, arrested by the sight of Coulson humming as he starts ladling pancake batter into a hot pan. He’s got a white apron on over his red thermals, and one bare foot taps out a rhythm against the hardwood floor. </p><p>He looks up at Clint and smiles, “How many pancakes?”</p><p>Coulson has a smudge of flour on his left cheek and his hair is still in disarray from their lovemaking and Clint realizes in that moment he’s never going to be able to think of Phil Coulson as terrifying again. The man is just too adorable. </p><p>A smile curls Barton’s lips and he calls out, “Hey.”</p><p>“Hey. Pancakes?” Phil gestures with the spatula towards the pan and at Barton’s nod asks again, “How many?”</p><p>“Oh, God, all of them.”</p><p>Phill laughs quietly. It looks like Barton’s sorted out whatever Garrett had said that had distressed him and Phil trusts that if it’s something he needs to know Barton will tell him. </p><p>Right now he looks good enough to eat, leaning in the bathroom doorway with water still beading his skin he looks warm and sweet— and Phil needs to concentrate on the pancakes before they burn, “Whoops! That one can be mine.”</p><p>“I don’t mind. Honestly, anything’s great. I can’t remember the last time someone actually made me breakfast.”</p><p>“Well, there’s syrup in the cabinet and juice in the fridge. Why don’t you set the table while I finish cooking?”</p><p>It’s wildly domestic and Phil starts to think this could be more than a hook up of convenience when Barton leans over and kisses his cheek as he passes by. </p><p>~~~</p><p>Their bellies are full and the dishes are done. Barton has gone the whole meal wearing nothing but a towel, as if he weren’t already distracting enough.</p><p>“So, I’ve been thinking,”  Phil starts and once he has Barton’s full attention continues, “What would you say to building up the fire a little, laying out some blankets in front of it while I shower, and then fingering me until I can’t come anymore?”</p><p>Barton’s breath catches, then he smirks, “Okay, but then we should do something for you.”</p><p>“Have I mentioned how fucking perfect you are?” Phil asks, coming over to cup Barton’s jaw before kissing him. It starts soft and sweet but quickly becomes hot and messy, Barton’s towel falling to the floor between them and Phil grabbing his bare ass to pull him close where he can feel how hard his enthusiasm has made Phil. </p><p>Coulson had started kissing him before he could object, he’s anything but perfect; but for now they’re making each other happy and there’s plenty of time for Coulson to figure out what a broken mess Clint is later. </p><p>Barton moans with loss as Phil breaks the kiss to say, “Shower. Fire. Sex.”</p><p>“Hurry?” Barton asks, need clinging to his voice.</p><p>“As fast as I can. Then we can take it slow.”</p><p>~~~</p><p>Clint will never in his life see anything as breathtaking as Phil Coulson going to his knees. He bends until his head is pillowed on his arms, keeping his ass high as he waits for Clint.</p><p>Clint comes up behind him and rests a not exactly steady hand against his hip, “Ready for me?”</p><p>Coulson licks his lips before nodding, “Yes. Touch me, Clint. Please?”</p><p>He warms the lube between his fingers, admiring the way the firelight flickers across Phil’s skin, a small thrill tingling up his spine at the intimacy of Phil’s request. </p><p>“Hold yourself open for me, babe.”</p><p>“Oh, fuck,” Clint hasn’t even touched him yet and he can feel himself get hard at the soft request. Phil shudders as he makes himself even more vulnerable, the soft fur caressing his skin as he lays his cheek against it and cants his hips up, spreading his legs and holding his cheeks apart.</p><p>“That’s it, Phil, just like that. God, you’re beautiful. I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop myself from jerking off over your back and that perfect ass.”</p><p>“Tease,” Phil means it to come out with a smile, but he can hear the plaintive note he isn’t quite able to keep back.</p><p>Clint leans over Phil’s body until they’re pressed together skin to skin and whispers, his lips brushing Phil’s ear, “Are you saying you don’t like me watching you?”</p><p>“Fuck. Look all you want, just touch me, too, damn it.”</p><p>“I am touching you,” Clint squeezes his hip and shifts against Phil to underscore his point, his dick sliding up between Phil’s legs to nudge at his balls. </p><p>Phil gasps, “Not what I meant and you know it.”</p><p>Clint sits up and back until he’s no longer touching Phil and smiles at the way Phil strains towards him while trying to keep his position, exposing the most intimate part of himself to Clint. The noise Phil makes is half growl, half whine, “I swear to God, Barton—.”</p><p>“Well, seeing as you’re asking so nicely,” Clint interrupts, barely brushing his fingertip across the tight furl of muscle.</p><p>“<em> Kid </em>,” Phil warns, reaching the limits of his patience; but as much as Clint wants to see what might happen if he keeps pushing he decides to save that for another time, too keen to feel Phil’s heat around him to delay any more. He presses his finger against Phil’s asshole firmly before rubbing small circles around his rim.</p><p>Phil sighs, his body relaxing into Clint’s touch. Clint takes his time opening him up, using just one finger on the outside of Phil’s hole until Phil starts trying to thrust back, the movement aborted by Clint’s other hand taking him firmly by the hip, “Phil. Hold still.”</p><p>Clint gets a frustrated groan, but Phil does stop and so Clint rewards him with just the tip of his slick finger before pulling it back out. Phil lets out a small sound of distress that immediately eases as Clint presses back in, setting up a slow and steady rhythm, adding a little twist or swirl every few strokes until Phil’s hole has adapted to the intrusion and his voice sounds wrecked when he says, “C’mon kid, I can take more. So much more.”</p><p>“Oh, I’m sure you can, babe; but remember what you told me you wanted?”</p><p>“Fuck,” Phil takes a breathe and bites his lower lip before answering, “I told you to draw it out. But fuck, Clint...Oh fuck, yes! Like that!”</p><p>Clint, rather unfairly, derails Phil’s train of thought by plunging his finger into the hilt and then twisting as he pulls back, leaving just the tip lightly pressed against Phil’s hole.</p><p>“What were your exact words.”</p><p>“Oh, fuck you. I said I wanted to come just from your fingers in my ass.”</p><p>“And?” Clint asks, giving Phil another stroke, and smiling as he grunts in pleasure.</p><p>“To make me cry. If you can.”</p><p>Clint smiles as he tugs a little at Phil’s rim, “But that wasn’t everything, was it?”</p><p>Phil groans, his hole tightening around Clint’s finger, “Make me beg to come and then make me keep coming until I beg you to stop.”</p><p>Clint still can’t believe how lucky he is. </p><p>“I'm just trying to give you what you want.”</p><p>“You know what I want.”</p><p>“What I know?” Clint thrusts at each pause savoring every one of Phil’s gasps and moans as they’re pulled from him, “Is that I. Have more,” he leaves his finger buried for a couple beats, taking longer and longer between each stroke, “Patience. Than. You.”</p><p>Phil has never been one to back down from a challenge and refuses to let his voice waver, “Guess we’ll see. Fuck. You’re really fucking good with your hands.”</p><p>“I’ll let you in on a secret,” Clint covers Phil’s body with his, his hard cock smearing precome on the back of Phil’s leg and it feels filthy in all the right ways. He bites Phil’s ear before pitching his voice low and practically purring, “I’m even better with my mouth—.”</p><p>The words are still on his lips as Phil twists and captures them in a frantic kiss, rolling them until he’s straddling Clint’s waist, Clint’s wrists pinned to his side as Phil devours his mouth, the fur warm and luxuriant under Clint’s back. </p><p>Phil’s stronger than he looks and he has leverage over Clint and it’s not like there’s anywhere else Clint wants to be; instead of resisting Clint gives into it, softening his mouth and body and giving in to Phil as much as Phil takes. </p><p>Phil rubs the cleft of his ass around Clint’s cock as he continues the kiss. Clint tastes faintly of syrup, sweet with a hint of maple and Phil loses himself in the thrust and pull of their bodies, letting go of Clint’s wrists to thumb at his nipples, Phil’s mouth and tongue hot and wet as he kisses Clint until they’re both breathless. </p><p>Phil eventually gets a hold of himself and rests his forehead against Clint’s, “Sorry,” he breathes, fingers feathering against Clint’s wrists.</p><p>“Don’t be; I’ve never enjoyed being right more. Do you want to keep doing this, or do you want to go back to testing your patience?”</p><p>“That’s not what I meant, I shouldn’t have,” Phil briefly squeezes his hands, his thumbs resting against the thin skin of Clint’s inner wrists, before taking his hands away and burying them in the blanket to either side of Clint’s arms. </p><p>“I told you, if I don’t like something, I’ll tell you. I don’t mind it a bit rough. Though if we want to try again maybe I should tie you up first,” Clint smirks.</p><p>Phil goes preternaturally still and all at once he isn’t Phil the cuddle monster who sings off key while making breakfast, he’s Phil Coulson, one of the deadliest agents to walk the halls of SHIELD.</p><p>“Okay, got it, no bondage for Phil. Do you… do you want to talk about it?” Clint sits up, using his hands to support Phil’s back as he sits in Clint’s lap. He runs his hands soothingly up and down the small of Phil’s back and the tension pours out of his body like water and Clint has his Phil back. </p><p>“Not really,” he says, then shrugs, “Occupational hazard.”</p><p>“Do you want to stop?”</p><p>“No, not if you don’t?”</p><p>“Then why don’t you get back on your knees for me, babe?”</p><p>Phil groans and licks his way back into Clint’s mouth, drawing his hands up Clint’s arms to his shoulders before easing off his lap and turning to present his ass again, “Like this?”</p><p>“Perfect.”</p><p>Clint re-slicks his fingers, the lube warms up quickly, and Phil’s asshole relaxes almost as soon as Clint touches it, welcoming in Clint’s finger, “That’s it Phil, get nice and wet for me, let me in.”</p><p>Clint has Phil squirming in no time, Phil’s flagging erection returning to full force; Clint had never lost his. Clint’s careful to walk that edge between too much and not enough, drawing out soft whimpers and guttural groans from Phil. </p><p>By the time he works Phil up to a third finger both of them are covered in a fine sheen of sweat, their bodies glistening in the firelight. </p><p>Clint’s avoided Phil’s prostate so far but now his ass is so full with Clint’s fingers that Clint can’t help but brush against it. </p><p>“Oh! Yes!”</p><p>“Like that, Phil? Is that what you want?”</p><p>Phil nods, half hiding his face in the fur as his fingers tighten on the firm globes of his ass as he continues to spread himself open for Clint.</p><p>“You know what you have to do to get it, don’t you?”</p><p>The nod is more hesitant now and Phil’s ass squeezes around Clint’s fingers. </p><p>“Come on, Phil, give it to me. We both want it. Say it. Give in.”</p><p>Phil’s lashes start to stick together as tears well up and so softly Clint almost thinks he imagines it he says, “Please.”</p><p>“You can do better than that,” Clint says, twisting his fingers against Phil’s prostate with purpose, if only for a moment, “Say it for me. Say it like you mean it. I’ll take care of you, Phil, I promise. You can trust me.”</p><p>“Please,” he’s louder this time, a little clearer though still slightly muffled by the blanket.</p><p>“That’s good, babe, just like that,” Clint rubs against his prostate again, “Feels good, doesn’t it?”</p><p>“Yes. Fuck yes. Please, Clint, don’t stop. I’m close. Please?”</p><p>“Anything for you Phil. I’d give you anything.”</p><p>“Oh fuck!” At that’s it, that's enough to finally push Phil over after the long slow build up, and he comes with Clint’s name on his lips, “Clint!”</p><p>“That’s it, come for me Phil; come on my fingers, wanna feel all of it, all of you.”</p><p>“Fuckfuckfuck,” Phil chants in one unbroken word, his cock spurting untouched beneath him.</p><p>“You’re so fucking sexy like this, Phil, coming apart for me; I could do this forever, I’m gonna keep going, you can take it for me, can’t you?”</p><p>“Oh, oh please! Give it, please, give it to me Clint, I want— I need— fuck! Oh fuck!” He’s sobbing in earnest now, his erection slowly waning but he keeps begging, “More, more—Ah! More!”</p><p>“I’ve got you, Phil, I’ve got you,” Clint leans over Phil’s back and drags his tongue over Phil’s salty skin before sucking in a mark, needing a lasting reminder of his claim, of what Phil’s giving him.</p><p>“Ah! Ahhh!” The competing sensations are too much, and there’s a tonal shift in Phil’s pleas, “Clint? Clint, I can’t— please!”</p><p>“Shhh, shhh, I’ve got you Phil,” he slows his strokes until his fingers are just resting inside Phil’s ass, awed at the way it continues to flutter around him. As the last of Phil’s aftershocks fade Clint lets his fingers slip out and he presses a gentle kiss to the hickey he’s left. </p><p>When Phil’s breath has evened out Clint asks, “Good?”</p><p>“Be better if you fucked my thighs.”</p><p>“I— what?”</p><p>“It’ll be good. Trust me.”</p><p>Clint follows Phil’s instructions, slathering lube on the inside of Phil’s thighs and then pulling his legs together, Clint’s legs bracketing them as he slowly pushes his dick into the slick warmth.</p><p>“Fuck. You’re right,” Clint’s fingers are tight on Phil’s hips as he holds him in place, “I’ve never— Jesus, how does this feel so good.”</p><p>“That’s it, Clint, fuck me, want to feel your come between my legs.”</p><p>“I’m not gonna— this is gonna be quick.”</p><p>“Yeah? You going to come for me? Going to mark me up? Make me yours?”</p><p>“Fuck!” That does it, that pushes Clint over the edge and he paints the inside of Phil’s thighs with his come. </p><p>He pants, his body curving around Phil’s until Phil tugs on him, urging them to collapse in a sticky, sweaty heap in front of the fire. Phil turns to face Clint and kisses him softly.</p><p>“That was incredible,” Clint says, still half drunk from his orgasm.</p><p>“It was,” Phil says in between the kisses he presses along Clint’s jaw before returning to the quirk of a scar on Clint’s lip. </p><p>They trade sweet kisses and soft touches, the raging storm outside no match for the emotions that well between them. </p><p>It’s too soon, they both know it’s too soon; just as much as they both know what they feel is real. </p><p>Neither of them say anything, afraid of breaking the spell that entwines them. </p><p>~~~</p><p>The blizzard breaks sometime after they’ve had dinner; they’re curled up together on the couch sipping hot cocoa with homemade marshmallows, Clint’s leaning his head against Phil’s shoulder, and Phil’s free arm is gently playing with Clint’s hair. </p><p>They trade redacted stories of assignments gone right, and a few that have gone wrong, and Phil talks about the early loss of his father and of a solitary childhood spent in these woods. Clint opens up about his own colorful past, letting himself find comfort in Phil’s arms. </p><p>As the monitors clear and show a forest blanketed in snow, Phil says, “We can get your gear in the morning.”</p><p>“I should stay out—.”</p><p>“Are you seriously going to argue about this with me?”</p><p>“Something you should know about me is that I will argue about anything.”</p><p>“I’m not saying stop your patrols; as much as I hate to admit it, Maria’s right, it’s good to have a second set of eyes out here.”</p><p>“It is so weird hearing you call the Deputy Director ‘Maria’.”</p><p>Phil laughs, “You should hear something of the less flattering things I call her. Though it’s nothing on some of the few choice words I’ve had for Nick.”</p><p>Clint life has gotten infinitely weirder with this assignment. He wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. </p><p>The peaceful stillness of the cabin is disturbed by a sudden ringing coming from the hope chest at the end of the bed. Phil extricates himself from his comfortable position and, by the time he answers the phone, his voice is coldly professional.</p><p>“You have something.”</p><p>“Another body,” Hill says, “Hungary. We had techs in the area and they were able to get a bead on the strain of venom: Latrodectus Sicarius.”</p><p>“Lat— You think it’s the Red Room.”</p><p>“We think it’s the Black Widow.”</p><p>Phil swears softly under his breath.</p><p>“Did you read Coldwater’s report?” Hill asks, “The victims’ covers line up with her research; they would have recruited women from diverse backgrounds to give themselves a broader reach, an assassin for every occasion. We think the Black Widow is one of them and that the higher ups have her tying up loose ends.”</p><p>“But if that’s the case, why involve NI at all?”</p><p>“Our best guess? Bait. She’s trying to draw someone out, but whether it’s us or another player we can’t be sure. The Director wants you to take her off the board. Once she’s eliminated we’ve arranged for one of our own to be tagged in.”</p><p>“You know my thoughts on the matter.”</p><p>“You want to try to flip her. You know that’s too risky. This is a direct order from Director Fury: Terminate the operative known as the Black Widow; do not engage; eliminate her from a distance, confirm the kill, come home.”</p><p>“Maria—.”</p><p>“<em> Phil. </em>He’s not messing around on this one. You have a problem with the Director’s orders you can take it up with him.”</p><p>“<em> He </em> knows how I feel about having my hands tied.”</p><p>“You and me both, but <em> you </em> know that’s a bridge you can only burn once.”</p><p>They’re both silent for a moment, the weight of that thought pressing down on them. Then Maria says, “I might be able to give you something. Take Barton with you. He’s got a good eye and, if there is a God, maybe he can keep you from doing something stupid.”</p><p>“Have you not read his file?”</p><p>“I said stupid, not reckless.”</p><p>Phil catches what she isn’t saying; Barton’s made plenty of calls that looked questionable in the field but every single one played out in SHIELDs favor. He’s good at seeing what others can’t and at making tough calls, even if his handlers disagree. </p><p>And he’ll also give Phil cover if this goes toes up; Maria has always been a fan of scapegoats. She didn’t get to where she was by playing nice, she plays it smart. </p><p>What she doesn’t know is that Phil isn’t about to sacrifice Clint to save his own career. </p><p>Or the Widow’s life.</p><p>Shit. </p><p>How did he get so deep so fast?</p><p>“I can get us to Beacon in an hour,” Let Hill read his clipped tone as ruthless agreement. </p><p>“Us?” Clint mouths when Phil glances over to him.</p><p>“It will take that long to get the ‘jet fully loaded.”</p><p>“I’ll check in when we arrive,” he says and disconnects. </p><p>Clint looks at him expectantly.</p><p>“What do you know about the Black Widow?”</p><p>Clint pales, “I’m familiar with her work.”</p><p>“Our orders are to terminate her. With prejudice. Are you ready to do what's necessary?"</p><p>Clint owes SHIELD his life, but he’s never been willing to die for anyone.</p><p>Everything’s changed in the last twenty four hours. </p><p>“I’m yours.”</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>